


Follow Me Way Out There

by MoanDiary



Series: Strange Trails [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a pillar of black smoke on the horizon that fills Furiosa with inexplicable dread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow Me Way Out There

The second time she comes to him, so to speak.

* * *

 

There’s a pillar of black smoke on the horizon that fills Furiosa with inexplicable dread.

“Get the war rig gassed up,” she says to Toast, who’s become her strong right hand over the past year. “And a team of Just Boys."

“What is it?” Toast asks.

“I’m not sure,” Furiosa says, her brow furrowing. “Tell the Vuvalini to get their bikes ready too."

Toast nods and hurries away. Furiosa takes another long look through the binoculars. Her heart pounds painfully against her ribcage.

The Just Boys are almost done getting the war rig prepped when she gets to the ground. They adopted the name after Capable kept insisting they no longer refer to themselves as War Boys. “Your life isn’t about war. You’re just boys,” she would say. And so the name stuck, although it was harder to get the war out of their hearts. Furiosa had recruited the healthiest to be the Citadel’s protectors and police force.

The boy nearest to her turns when he hears her footsteps on the gravel and sends up the cry. “Hail Furiosa!” Twelve grease-blackened foreheads turn towards her. “Hail Furiosa!” The Just Boys chorus.

Furiosa raises a hand in awkward acknowledgement, still not entirely comfortable with their unquestioning adoration. She often thinks about Nux’s raw misery upon believing he’d failed Immortan Joe. To be that dependent on another is always a mistake.

“Ready, boss?” Toast comes up behind her, tugging on her gloves and adjusting the rifle slung over her shoulder.

“Let’s get moving!” Furiosa yells.

The Just Boys scurry to finish their work and clamber into position, a few in pursuit vehicles and a few atop the war rig. The two Vuvalini bikers nod and lower their goggles. Furiosa and Toast climb up into the cab. The engines rev to life, their vibrations resonating up through her body. Her vision narrows to the disappearing line of the road before her, and, as always, something unclenches in her gut.

They go.

* * *

 

The pillar of black smoke leads them onward like an accusing finger from heaven, God chastising his creation. The scene it points to is neither pleasant nor unfamiliar. A ring of burning wrecks and cooling corpses surrounds a battered Interceptor. She knows almost before she sees it that it’s Max’s. The poor vehicle has the same hounded, hunted look to it as the man himself. And now it’s riddled with bullet holes and smoking faintly.

For a scene of such extreme violence, it’s eerily quiet once Furiosa turns off the rig’s engines. She jumps down to the ground and walks slowly towards the center of the destruction, her legs leaden. She spares a glance at one of the corpses as she passes. From the elaborate patterns shaved in his head, he looks to be a member of the Cliff Lizards. Nearly seventy klicks away from his gang’s patch.

She can see the scene with a dull clarity. Max outnumbered and racing away from them, racing towards the Citadel. But not fast enough. The Cliff Lizards overcome him. He makes a last stand with his distinctive brand of lethal efficiency. No survivors.

“No survivors,” she mutters. Her legs carry her on inexorably towards the Interceptor. She clasps the handle of the driver’s side door with her metal hand, squeezing it so hard it squeals in protest as she wrenches the door open.

There he is. Unmoving, his upper body nearly horizontal across the passenger seat of the car. He’s dead, she thinks numbly.

But no, not dead. His face is a mask of blood but a gash on his temple is clearly still pumping out more.

“Krink! Slammer!” She shouts, and two Just Boys are at her side in an instant. “Pull him out of there. Morda,” she says more quietly, turning to the Vuvalini healer, a mute entreaty in her eyes. “Save him."

Morda nods shortly and immediately begins barking orders at the two Just Boys carefully easing Max out of the car door. Furiosa looks back inside as they pull him out, suddenly realizing why his top half was splayed across the passenger seat. Two small children are huddled on the floorboards in front of it, trembling and pale, staring up at Furiosa with terrified eyes.

“It’s okay,” she says gruffly. “You’re safe.” She reaches out a hand and they shrink away.

Then one of the children, a girl, lunges at her with a jagged piece of metal gripped like a knife in one hand. Furiosa jerks backwards. “What are you doing with him?” The girl cries, a fearful tremble still in her voice, but a feral look in her eye.

Furiosa raises both hands. “We’re friends. I’m here to help him."

“Are you Furiosa?” The boy asks quietly, staring at her left arm. “Furiosa from the Green Place?”

Furiosa nods haltingly.

“He said she would keep us safe,” the boy says to the girl. The girl looks back and forth from Furiosa to the boy and slowly lowers her makeshift knife.

“Come on, let’s get you out of there."

* * *

 

The drive back to the Citadel seems to take an age. Furiosa can’t help glancing over her shoulder at Morda and Max in the back seat every few moments. Morda field-dressed the worst of his injuries—a gunshot to the leg and a piece of shrapnel lodged deep in his back—before they left, but he still certainly will die if they don’t get him back soon.

When the rig bounces over a particularly large bump, he gains consciousness enough to make a pained sound and open his eyes halfway before slipping back into oblivion.

“He’ll need blood,” Morda says quietly.

Furiosa is silent for a long moment. “We still have Organic’s records, right? Which of Wretched was eligible to be a blood bag?"

Morda nods, hesitant.

“We need someone who's O-negative."

Morda’s brows furrow. “Most of them hardly can spare enough to fill a Pup. This man needs eight pints at least."

Fear is like a cold blade in Furiosa’s gut.

“Just get me the list,” she says.

* * *

 

She follows the Just Boys as they carry him from the cab, into the elevator, and up to their makeshift clinic, helping as they carefully lower his body onto a cot. Once they leave, she grips his cold hand in hers.

“You don’t get to die today,” she whispers fiercely.

“Furiosa.” She turns to see Morda, Capable, and Toast standing in the doorway. Behind them are at least a dozen Wretched, their eyes lowered in deference.

“I only need one,” Furiosa says numbly.

“We told them it was Max, and they all volunteered,” Toast replies simply.

So Furiosa backs away and watches mutely as Morda pulls the shrapnel from Max’s back and stitches the wound, as the Wretched come and each give their blood to him in turn, as the color returns to his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Furiosa says to the last of the Wretched as Morda pulls the tube from his arm. He’s a young man, probably not older than seventeen. He ducks his head and blushes under Furiosa’s gaze.

“S’nothing, ma’am, Furiosa, ma’am. I remember when you came back. An' he was the one that held you up an’ kicked ol’ Joe’s body onto the ground. S’nothing."

“It’s something.” She lays her hand on his shoulder and he slowly raises his eyes to hers. She smiles tightly at him and he grins back.

“Thank you, Furiosa, ma’am.” He springs to his feet, swaying slightly from blood loss, and stumbles back out the door.

When she looks back to Max, his eyes are open, glittering.

“Hey,” she says, proud to note her voice is still stable despite the overwhelming wave of relief that rolls through her.

“Hey,” Max croaks. His eyes shift back and forth slightly, his forehead wrinkling. “The kids okay?"

“They’re fine. I think Toast left them with Cheedo. Should I ask where they came from?"

“Dunno. But they’re better off here than where they were.” He groans and reaches around to feel the long row of neat stitches on his back, wincing.

“Stop it, or else I’ll have to go scrounge up more blood for you,” she chastises, forcing his arm back down onto the cot.

“You’re a terrible nurse.” She scrutinizes his face in disbelief, hardly believing he could actually be teasing her.

She snorts and gives the back of his head a gentle shove. But she doesn’t take her hand away and instead cards her fingers through his messy hair, rubbing his scalp slowly. He makes a deep humming sound and his eyes slide shut again.

* * *

 

The two children are named Ansey and Strix and apparently had been enslaved by the Cliff Lizards after the gang slaughtered their parents. Ansey is a firecracker and won’t let anyone but Cheedo close to her brother for almost two days. Strix seems to be a gentle soul, but sharply intelligent for his age. Morda informs Furiosa that neither show any signs of either bone poisoning or night fever—they are true full-lifes.

On the third day, she lets them visit Max, who is already chafing under the tyranny of Morda’s medical care, despite the fact that the bed rest is clearly doing him good.

“Hey you two,” he says by way of greeting when the excited children appear in the doorway.

“Max!” Ansey, whom Furiosa had never seen show any emotion besides dangerous rage, has tears in her eyes as they rush to his bedside. Strix throws his thin arms around Max’s neck and Max pats him awkwardly on the back.

“Careful now,” Morda chides. “He’s still healing."

“Sorry.” Strix pulls away immediately.

“You’re too strong for me,” Max says, taking Strix’s hand and pretending to arm-wrestle him.

Strix giggles and Max cracks a rare smile. Ansey finally seems to have relaxed. He was a father, Furiosa realizes suddenly, watching the scene unfold from the doorway. As if hearing her thoughts, Max’s eyes flicker over to her and the smile slips from his face.

“Alright, you two. I’m sure you can find something more interesting to do here than waste your time brutalizing an old man."

Morda herds them back out the door, leaving Max and Furiosa alone in the clinic aside from an ill Just Boy sleeping a few beds down. She’d left Max's bedside after he stabilized and returned to the all-consuming work of running the Citadel, receiving frequent updates on his healing process from Morda, who characterized it as “eerily fast."

She makes her way over to him and sits in the chair next to his bed with a weary sigh, rolling her left shoulder in discomfort.

“That bother you?” He nods at her prosthesis.

“I’m used to it. How’s your back?"

“Fucking hurts."

They sit in companionable silence for a long moment.

“Move over,” Furiosa says abruptly, standing.

Max wordlessly shifts towards the other side of the narrow cot and she lays on her side next to him, resting her metal hand possessively on his chest. He eases an arm under her waist and pulls her up against him, dipping his head to curve of her neck and breathing in deeply, his whole body relaxing as he exhales.

“Are we even now or are you ahead?” She can feel the words rumble through his chest.

“Who’s counting?” She breathes, then presses her lips to his softly. He sighs and responds in kind, a slow exploration of each other’s mouths that stands in stark contrast to their first desperate coupling months ago.

When she finally releases his lips, his breath has quickened. He tries to roll on top of her, but she presses him back onto the bed.

“Your back,” she chastises, sliding one leg between his and moving as close to him as possible without putting strain on his wound. He makes a low, desperate noise as her thigh presses up against him, nipping and sucking his way down her neck.

He mutters something that sounds like “missed you,” and fumbles to get a hand into her pants. She chuckles and slides her own true hand down his back and under his waistband. Raking her nails up his muscular buttock elicits a sharp gasp as his hips surge towards her, and she files away this response with delight. Meanwhile, his hand has found its way to her pussy and the sensation of his rough fingers sliding against her is almost unbearably good.

He licks his way into her mouth again as he works her cunt and in what seems like only moments (but could just as well be hours), she’s coming, clutching him to her and gasping out her release against his stubbled cheek.

When conscious thought returns, she’s still gripping his ass and he’s shifting restlessly against her. She’s close enough the she can feel the pulse beating a rapid drumbeat in his neck. She pushes him onto his back and slides his waistband down with her metal hand, then uses it to prop herself up as she grips his hard, hot flesh with the other.

She looks up at him, then eases herself down the bed until she’s settled between his legs. He’s watching her with unblinking, hooded eyes, and seems torn between holding his breath and trying to catch it. She strokes him a few times, then lowers her mouth to him, watching to see what provokes the strongest response. He gasps and writhes under her as she increases her pace, seems to toy with the idea of putting a hand on the back of her head, but instead decides to just fist it in the sheets beneath him.

In her coup de grace, Furiosa pushes a finger into his ass and presses it unerringly against his prostate, and he comes almost immediately with a surprised “Ah,” his whole body tensing and arching.

She spits expertly into the bedpan on the floor beside them, then climbs back up his body to rest at his side again. He’s staring up, unseeing, at the dim stone ceiling, his chest heaving as he works to catch his breath.

“You didn’t pull any stitches, did you?” Furiosa prompts when he finally regains a modicum of composure.

He huffs out a little laugh. “Don’t think so."

“Good,” she says, patting his chest then pulling herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ve got work to do.” She adjusts the straps for her arm and pulls her clothing back into place. The Just Boy further down the ward is either still sleeping or convincingly pretending to. “Come find me sometime before you leave."

He grunts in assent. She turns to look at him. He’s watching her with a smile that might be termed tender. Nine months ago, or a year, she’d have said there was no place in this world for tenderness, certainly not for people like them. But now...

…Now she isn’t so sure.


End file.
